The black sedan purred to a stop at the curb, right outside the iron gates of New York University. Inside the climate-controlled cabin, Nathan Summers adjusted his thighs for the hundredth time, the hem of his cream-colored pencil skirt riding up despite his best efforts. The garment was silk, expensive—exactly what a Belgian heiress would wear—but Nathan felt naked from the waist down, his newly shaved legs strangely vulnerable to every whisper of air conditioning blasting from the vents.

"Showtime," Luke said from the opposite bench seat.

He was already reaching for the door handle—the brunette disguise working almost too well. As Allison Reed, Luke wore chestnut waves pinned back by designer glasses that caught the afternoon light. His blouse was a deep emerald V-neck that plunged far enough to show the engineered curve of his prosthetic cleavage, and when he shifted, the pleated navy skirt rode up milky thighs that still held the muscled memory of a man's posture. The FBI's R&D department had crafted Allison to look like a bookish temptress, the kind of grad student who turned heads in the library stacks, and Luke inhabited the role with infuriating ease.

He swung his legs out first. The moment his heeled pump touched asphalt, Nathan watched Luke's spine stiffen—not from pain, but from something else entirely. A faint flush crept up Luke's neckline as he stood, the height of the stilettos shifting his center of gravity forward, pressing the seamless crotch of the disguise against his still-functioning anatomy. Nathan knew that look. He'd felt his own body betray him during training, but Luke was practically gloating with arousal, his hips swaying with exaggerated satisfaction as the tight skirt restricted his stride.

"For God's sake," Nathan muttered, sliding across the leather seat toward the other door. "Adjust your frequency before you embarrass us."

Luke didn't turn around. He just raised a hand and waved off the concern, his voice coming through perfectly pitched and feminine thanks to the tiny subvocal modulator already activated behind his borrowed lips. "Relax, Princess. I've got it set to 'sultry librarian.' You're the one who sounds like you're doing a bad drag impression."

Nathan gritted his teeth—Arabella's teeth, bonded to his jawline with molecular precision. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, the autumn breeze hitting his legs immediately. The sensation made him gasp. Without the shield of trousers, without the coarse hair he'd shaved off in that humiliating R&D session, he felt every gust of wind like a physical touch. He jerked the skirt down, irritation prickling hot under his skin. He was supposed to be Arabella Montclair: tall, sleek, untouchable. Instead, he felt like a scarecrow stuffed into couture, all stiff limbs and exposed nerves.

The driver's window rolled down. Agent Blake leaned out, his aviator sunglasses reflecting two distorted images of Nathan's blonde silhouette. Blake was bureau, through and through—forty, weathered, with a smile that suggested he'd seen every undercover operation the FBI had to offer and found most of them amusing.

"Good luck, ladies," Blake called, his eyes lingering on Luke's legs, then flicking up to Nathan's chest with equal appreciation. "Campus security knows you're transferring in, but remember—you're just students until proven otherwise. Call the burner if things get spicy." He winked, slow and deliberate. "And I mean that literally. Drinks, dinner, whatever you need. I'm on standby twenty-four seven. Don't be strangers."

He tapped the door panel, gave them both a lingering once-over that made Nathan's face heat up beneath the mask, and then the engine revved. The black car pulled away from the curb, leaving them standing on the sidewalk with nothing but their purses, their wireless earpieces, and the weight of the mission settling like a stone in Nathan's stomach.

"Remember the protocols," Nathan said, turning to Luke, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper even though the voice modulator would smooth it into Arabella's aristocratic alto. "We practiced the dormitory access codes. You have your class schedule memorized? The background on Allison's thesis advisor? One wrong detail and—"

"And what?" Luke cut him off, finally turning. Behind the glasses, his eyes held none of the academic softness the disguise suggested—only the sharp, dismissive arrogance Nathan had come to despise during training. Luke popped his hip out, adjusting the strap of his purse with a casual flick that drew attention back to his neckline. "Nathan, I've been doing this since before you learned how to lie to your mother. Stop mothering me."

He turned on his heel—the move practiced, the clack of the stiletto authoritative—and started walking toward the quad without looking back.

Nathan stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching Luke's hips sway in that damned pleated skirt, watching how naturally the arrogance fit him, how little he cared about the integrity of the operation. Panic and resentment curdled in Nathan's gut. He couldn't fail this mission. Not on his first assignment. Not while Copeland was waiting back at the field office, ready to ship him back to Quantico in disgrace.

"Okay," Nathan whispered to himself, falling into step behind Luke. "Okay. You are Arabella Montclair. You are not Nathan Summers. Nathan is kind. Nathan is soft. Arabella is..." He rehearsed the adjectives Kevin Copeland had drilled into him during the briefing. "Arabella is cruel. Arabella is entitled. She looks down on everyone."

They passed through the iron gates. Students milled everywhere—clusters of freshmen with oversized backpacks, frisbee games on the lawn, the smell of coffee and expensive cologne in the air. Nathan forced his shoulders back, imitating the haughty posture he'd studied in surveillance photos of the real Arabella. He let his face settle into a mask of boredom, of disdain, even as his heart hammered against the prosthetic breasts that suddenly felt too tight, too real.

"You," Nathan called out, pitching his voice into the upper register Luke had taught him, letting the modulator warp it into something icy and cutting. He strode past Luke, forcing the taller heels to carry him with purpose. "Allison. Don't lag. I don't have time to wait for scholarship students to find their footing."

The words tasted like ash, but Nathan kept his chin high, his gaze forward, feeling the breeze continue to tease his exposed thighs. He was Arabella now. He had to be.

Luke caught up in two strides, adjusting his glasses with a smirk that said he knew exactly what Nathan was doing—and that he didn't respect the effort one bit. "Whatever you say, Princess," he purred, the voice modulator making the nickname sound like a caress. "Try not to trip. I'd hate to see you ruin those perfect nails."

They walked deeper onto the campus, two false women in false bodies, with only Nathan's terrified determination and Luke's dangerous confidence keeping them moving toward the dormitories.